


Respite

by Ladycat



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Episode: s05e22 Not Fade Away, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:04:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor puts his can of beer down. The floor, since his table is occupied. "Are you insulting me? Because in certain parts of the country, that'd be an insult."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respite

Cider is more appropriate, sweet and tart and hot enough to ward off the constant chill. Connor has no idea how to make it, though, and even less idea where he might buy it.

He drinks beer. Coors. Sometimes Coors Light. It's cheap and readily available.

The cabin is small enough that the mist of his breath clings to the opposite wall. There'll be frost, before morning. Connor has blankets and a small space heater he can't use without electricity.

Most of that crackles blue and winter-cold around the figure leaning against the rickety table that serves are dinner and bed-side, both.

"You don't look like him, you know."

Connor takes another swig. It tastes awful, sour and too bitter on his tongue. He doesn't care. "Yeah, I know. I look like her."

Her. The one he knows almost nothing about, except that she was evil and then she wasn't. That she sacrificed herself for him, the first of a long string of people to go on that list.

"You do. It's the mouth, in particular. You have a very small mouth for a man."

Connor puts his can of beer down. The floor, since his table is occupied. "Are you insulting me? Because in certain parts of the country, that'd be an insult."

The ghost of christmas' torment just smiles at him, enigmatic below glasses that hold too much light to see his eyes. It's creepy, but Connor doesn't mind. He's used to creepy.

The air feels taut around him.

"I suppose you have questions. You'll want to know why I... did what I did."

Connor keeps in contact, still. It's easier now that the guy with one eye, Xander, has taken over the position as liaison. He's pretty laid back, and his grumbles about being a message boy for his so-hated Dead Boy are pretty much for show.

He gets it. He gets it the way Connor does. He's pretty useful for information, too, once all the tangents and personal invectives are strained out.

Xander holds grudges. Connor admires that in a guy.

"No," he says, laying back on a cot with blankets almost as cold as the snow outside. "I know why you did it. Xander got it from Giles, who got it from your notes. What I want to know is why you're here."

The flickering image of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce smiles at him. It's not a nice smile, but Connor thinks it might have been. Once. "Can't I simply want to visit? After all. You're... quite remarkable."

Connor opens his mouth -- _it's remarkable to be trapped in a one-room cabin with no heat, in the middle of a snow-storm, while tracking a demonically feral yeti?_ \-- then closes it.

"Do you know anything about furnaces?" he asks instead. "I mean, I get that you can't touch anything. But maybe you could talk me through it?"

It might be imagination, but the smile he gets in return is as full of relief as it is hope. "I can probably help you with that, yes. If not there are other things I can do."

The wood above Connor's head is cracked and peeling, grey flakes that settle around him like miniature snow-drifts. He reaches up, fingers just grazing a curled up piece as long as his hand. "Cool."


End file.
